


i said with a grin (that we were just talking about you)

by trustingno1



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's at Wimbledon that Andy comes towards him in the locker room, baseball cap in hand, reaching for Roger's head.</p>
<p>(Post French Open 2009).</p>
            </blockquote>





	i said with a grin (that we were just talking about you)

**Author's Note:**

> Makes reference to the ~intruder at the French Open, and the acronym GOAT; title from Barenaked Ladies' Humor of the Situation.

It's at Wimbledon that Andy comes towards him in the locker room, baseball cap in hand, reaching for Roger's head.

Roger knocks his hand away. "It's not funny," he says, but he's kind of laughing already, and Andy grins as he shakes his hand.

"Hey, man."

"Hello Andy," and then, because it's been a few weeks, and he's almost able to laugh at it, "He could've had a _knife_."

"You obviously knew he didn't. You were backing away pretty slowly." Roger's smile is a little awkward, and Andy shrugs. "I'm just _saying_ , you might want to work on your hand-to-hand combat skills."

"Thank you."

"I mean - seriously."

"You can stop, now, Andy."

Andy grins at him, then freezes, eyes widening in mock excitement. "Whoa. That's just given me a great idea," he pauses, cocks his head to the side, "Have you ever seen _Psycho_?" Andy mimes stabbing, and Roger smiles slightly. Andy jerks his head towards the showers. "Just - be on your toes. That's all I'm saying."

"You're terrible," Roger replies, but he's still smiling.

"As terrible as the security at Roland Garros?" Andy says, quickly; he licks his fingertip, draws an invisible line in the air, and Roger snorts, softly.

"Are you - done?" he asks.

Andy nods. "Sure, sure." Then, before Roger can interrupt, "So how much do you think Soderling paid him?" and they're both laughing.

" _Andy_ ," Roger protests, but it's affectionate, and amused, and he sometimes forgets just how much he enjoys Andy's company, and Andy grins back, scratching his elbow.

"You're welcome, by the way," he says, and Roger's eyes narrow.

"For ..."

"Tiring out Monfils," Andy replies, deadpan.

"What? No," Roger argues, but Andy's nodding.

"It's OK. Anytime."

"I'm just disappointed I didn't get to play you, Andy."

"You just like beating me," Andy says, lightly, and Roger shrugs.

"I beat a lot of people," and it's just a _fact_ to him, so Andy smiles slightly.

"Maybe we'll play here."

"Maybe," Roger agrees.

"Well - good luck, man," Andy says, offering his hand.

"To you, too," Roger replies, as Andy leans into him, their shoulders bumping. "Andy," he adds, as Andy turns to leave. He has no proof, but suspects Andy has something to do with the bleating that greets him every time he enters the locker room - so he raises his eyebrows slightly, says, mildly, "I assume the ... bleating ... is your doing?"

"Bleating?" Andy narrows his eyes, confused, "I don't ..." and Roger actually _opens his mouth_ before he catches himself; he waves a hand at Andy, laughing, and Andy finally grins. "I _nearly_ had you doing it," he sighs, ruefully; then, eyes bright, with mock-innocence, "I have _no idea_ what you're talking about."

 


End file.
